


A Term of Endearment

by darkrabbit



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bombing, Delegation, Drama, F/M, Mystery, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrabbit/pseuds/darkrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor has moved on. After saving a symbiote but not her host on a suspiciously derelict station, he has taken her on board the TARDIS, and nursed her to health. They travel to her homeworld... but the game, as they say, is atentacle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skin Job

**Author's Note:**

> My bro tardis-mole wrote a portion of the sex scene for chapter one. But he's not on here, so I can't credit him as a co-author. -cries-

 

 

Tramping triumphantly up the ramps, the Doctor threw open the TARDIS doors and stepped inside, holding his coat out like a screen so Welyx could see the inside of Her as they both stepped through.

 

 

“Well, this is her. Bigger on the inside isn’t it?” the Time Lord murmured, smiling at his new passenger as he took the trench off and flung it onto an overhanging coral piece. “What do you think?”

 

 

The wormish diplomat lifted her head from the Time Lord’s hand then, her narrow body shaking with glee as she extended two feelers out into the wide openness that was the TARDIS console room. She was indeed a ship like nothing that had ever been seen before, so bright, so beautiful!

 

 

‘She seems to appreciate my being here, at least.”

 

 

The Doctor ran a hand through his eternally mussed brown hair and puffed out his cheeks in a show of content.

 

“Oh, I think so, I really do. Do you want separate rooms yet, or should I expect things to progress quickly from now until the drop on Wexyllis VIII, as it were?”

 

 

“Ah, Doctor,” Welyx was in her element now, and she chose her words carefully as she began to address what had quickly become more than a mere professional relationship. “I believe your Solian friends would say, ‘It’s still kid gloves from here?’”

 

 

The Time Lord nodded mentally, letting the feeling of his approval wash over Welyx’s telepathic receptors as he did so.

 

 

 The wormlike Wexylleen diplomat jiggled somewhat in his hand again, a sure sign of upbeat emotional radiation at his words.

 

 

 

 

“Of course, Doctor. When our duties on Wexyllis VIII are done with, I will, perhaps, not look quite so forward to the day when we will inevitably part.”

 

 

A smile lit the Lord of Time’s eyes still further, and he looked down at his small companion with more colour in his cheeks than she’d seen in all the since she’d met him on that tiny little backwater outpost, Station Fifteen. They’d saved the whole quadrant together, after he’d helped her survive the loss of her host, Kalmbyd. He’d been at the center of the blast when-

 

 

“Agh, that bled through a bit, Welyx, try not to think about it anymore? I’m gonna have to fly the TARDIS soon, and I can’t have you nodding off or going into cardiac arrests because of radiant emotive backlash. Try? For me? Believe you me, I know it’s difficult, love. But just... give it a go, what? We’ll be there soon!”

 

His tone was gentle, but Welyx needed no telepathy to know he was worried. They had been Tied since he’d found her gray and lifeless body on Fifteen, hanging from her beloved cloii Kalmbyd’s secondary eating orifice. As Honoured Lover-Diplomats of the peace loving, eel-like Wexylleen and the gentle, towering, humanoid cloii, they had been on the Station to meet with the Ambassadorial Procession from Ploc’l, a watery spheroid located in the constellation Catalbya, off the rings of Trangan, a pinkish twin of Sol’s Saturn. But they had ended as victims, prisoners of their two races’ symbiotic need for each other.

 

 

The blast had been designed by the Station’s dark-loving, techno-organic octopoid Operators to destroy all three ambassadorial docks, leaving only the debris of three stolen Diplomatic vessels. They had wanted to escape their servitude on the Station, and had grown weary of the captivity their mechanical immortality had brought them. They had even installed a dummy console in the main control room, to make it appear as though the Ploc’lites had something to do with the explosion.

 

 

The Doctor’s hand wrapped itself around her length, stroking her skin, supporting her with his touch and his arm as she twisted around his forearm. Her sudden desperation reminded him of an Earth boa constrictor... lovely things! Spoke excellent French, most of them. He looked up, sadness pooling in places he didn’t want it to.

 

 

“Ah, well. So much for that, then.” His voice was soft as he patted Welyx’s unconscious form with his free hand then eased her, arm hand all, into his left pocket. “Relax, sweetheart. These pockets are bigger on the inside, too. Just like my hearts, I ‘spose. But if you ever meet a redhead named Donna, don’t you dare tell her I said that. I’ve a reputation to uphold as the Emo King of Downing Street.”

 


	2. Firefly Platform

 

 

The Doctor sat in the crash couch, just watching Welyx sleep where he’d curled her about his arm like a lavender grey, velvety tippet. She was attached to him now; he couldn’t very well have left her to die on Station Fifteen, could he have done? He smiled to himself, but not too much. A sharp rise in emotional radiation could damage the Ambassador’s fragile mental state. He would do more work with her once they left the Vortex, but for now, she was going to have to wait. A few more weeks within the safest place this side of forever wouldn’t matter much, being as that his beautiful ship was what she was, and he was what he was, and everything around seemed never to notice them, not in the slightest.

 

 

Not really, anyway.

 

 

Except blood. And death. But no one escaped _their_ notice, in one way or another. Still, the fact that he always led the people he met to experience far more of both than he would have wanted did not escape his recollection. A list of names burned into him would be dishonest to them, and to the universe. To make up for it, he made sure that as he heard of each former friend, relative or lover’s eventual demise, the TARDIS would reabsorb the room they’d kept, and everything would be wiped clean. It was a lesson in humility he rarely taught himself in the company of others. He really needed to get out more, maybe visit hell again, to once more get the tee shirt and the complimentary Roller Coaster scream pic... but then again, he had enough of those to last several lives’ time. And of course, the rooms could always be rebuilt. The TARDIS never forgot anyone, for him; always for him.

 

 

“You ought to more often, you know,” a soft female voice echoed from just above his slender ribcage. Welyx.

 

 

The scaly annelid seemed rested; he took grace in that, and more than a handful of pleasure. She was already wriggling her way along his sixteen naked ribs, and not just because his shirt was open to allow her other, hidden parts to breathe.

 

 

He said nothing, merely content to watch her recover from her grief a little more because of his efforts.

 

 

“I did not mean forever, Doctor. Just for a day, to clear your mind of them. To drift. Stay with me for a while on Wexyllis VII. You need a break from this.”

 

 

A shiver took him; he was supposed to be healing her, not the other way ‘round.

 

 

His fingers moved, or tried to, but he seemed unusually rooted to a particularly uneventful part of the Ship grates. They both were lying on the captaining chair, Welyx having slept around his arm during the night as he sat up with her, he and her alone in the dimness of the main console room, watching, listening in the silence for something more than the shadow of hope he still clung to, all while dampening his energetic reactions to a level that would not disrupt her somewhat fitful sleep. And his beloved Iraj, his beauty, his pride, his blue wood and coral strutted rock, had left them alone.

 

 

“You slept for a short while, too, Theta,” said Welyx, nuzzling his bare chest with a weak backward sweep of her long wormish muzzle. “... were you feeling the strain of what you accomplished for our three races then? You performed a minor miracle on that Station, saving both the missions as you did. My cloii would have been proud to know you, and even prouder to see you perform such a feat.”

 

 

The Doctor pondered her, and as he pondered the smooth scales that ran like little fires over her skin, pouring like a flood of red petals over her long, sinuous, serpentine form, he also considered how the shards of metal had flown in precisely the wrong pattern from the blast core. The caloric flash bomb was harmless to most bipeds, but the radiant backlash from only one blast could irrevocably decimate the gene structure of certain invertebrate life forms such as the invertebrate Wexylline, as well as their precious hominid partners the cloii, due to the sharing of certain nerve tissues between the two. And the Ploc’lites... they were little more than bloviate Portuguese Men O’ War from a hickish little water world, a stuffy race of giant jellyfish with very little to offer the darker sides in terms of high damage weaponry.

 

 

That blast had failed to do more than wound some diplomats and damage some of the smaller ambassadorial vessels. When he had reached the control room, or rather the dummy plug set up by the cybernetically enhanced Operators, there had been nothing. The console had been so obviously a fake! What troubled him was why they had built the dummy console just to hide the vid, if the bomb had not been a diversionary tactic to hide some greater scheme in the first place. And then, there was the matter of that one suspicious death, that of Welyx’s cloii, Kalmbyd.

 

 

The Doctor suspected the bomb had been planted somewhere on the cloii’s body, as the dispelling waves of force had totally disintegrated the man’s lower extremities. Rooting through the bits to find Welyx’s tendrils had been like digging through the bottom half of a human’s body, save that cloii innards were coated with a bright bluish fungi that served certain swinging door bacteriophagic purposes in lieu of anything truly resembling blood. In essence, the cloii were practically part plant, and there were natural holes and deep bark like ridges all over their bark like bodies, even their heads, so that their Wexylleen partners would always have a protective nook to hide in. The Doctor imagined they were rather like big pieces of blue driftwood with appendages, as he’d only ever seen one. And that one, Kalmbyd, had been in fragments from the waist down. Dying, but not yet dead. And then he _had_ died, his expiring gaze peaceful and unassuming. He must have known that his Cloii would be safe in the arms of the stranger who’d held them both as he lay bleeding.

 

 

Welyx had mentioned to him that Kalmbyd would often shift his weight so she could wriggle through each of his holes, all of his orifices... in one go, a favorite pastime of theirs, as it allowed them both to share so many sensations at once. A form of bonding, as it were. And her notes on the Proc’lites! Thrilling! Everything about the three races present that day on Station Fifteen fascinated him beyond words. It was almost like Christmas come early.

 

 

 A soft thump against his chest brought him back to the present. Welyx was haranguing him with her semi hard capitulum head, trying, he supposed, to get him to relax and just breathe. It had been hard for him, too, seeing all that fire. Thankfully with her help he had managed to find the sprinkler system and sonic it on. No one else had died in the blaze save Kalmbyd. Interesting.

 

 

Suddenly his right side exploded in a crawling lace of pain as two slim, curled fangs slammed into his forearm, sinking through the layers of soft tissue and sinew like bodies in quicksand. Striking bone, Welyx’s feral growl raged along his barriers, sorely testing his small talent for telepathy as she sought a way in to the inner spaces he allowed no one to see.

 

 

Coiling like a spring, the ambassador lifted herself from his arm in a spasmic bouncing leap, aiming for his head, tapering, fang full mouth narrowed as if preparing to intubate his tightening throat with her threadlike length. Then she whipped her tail behind him, attacking his leftmost kidney as her freefalling body struck him just above his subtle yet well formed pecs, knocking the air from all three of his lungs. 

 

 

Wide eyed and staring, they both toppled to the TARDIS grates in a heap, Welyx on top of him, his back pressing hard into the living metal of the floor.

 

 

He laughed, grabbing for her even as she flung herself away from his pretty fingers.

 

 

“I was distracted! You took advantage, you naughty woman.”

 

 

A small click of music erupted from the ambassador’s tightly held maw. She was grinning, rather like a friendly sandworm... or a drunken Ling Po.

 

 

“...oh ho! Took advantage did I? Of you or your pride, Lord of Time? In any case, I think not. You nearly caught me, you know. And speaking of advantage, I do hope the little nip I gave you won’t put you out.”

 

 

 

Like eels they writhed and squirmed together, hands and other extremities smoothing each other’s bodies in a frenzy of need. She smelled intoxicating as she shifted shape to better match his own and in a drunken stupor he pressed closer. She purred as he cuddled her, tucking her close against his body.

 

 

 

She tore the shirt off him, leaving pink welts across his back where her claw-like nails had only just scored his skin. He stared up at her in shock. But she was on him before he could utter a word of complaint, curling over him like fevered hands, hot breath on his skin causing a wreath of goose bumps to dance across his chest. Like tiny exploding fireworks within his brain; he gasped.

 

 

 

As the waterfall thundered overhead, he was barely aware of his fingers unfastening his pants. The first moment he realised that they were open was the feel of her body rubbing against his exposed manhood. He moaned and she squirmed all the more, intent on purring to him in encouraging.

 

 

 

She wriggled with her back against his chest, ferret-like, and he drew a hand down her body from her shoulder to her hip and gently entered her from behind. Rolling forward he held her, almost covering her completely with his body.

 

 

 

A few short thrusts and he grunted with release. But he kept going, groaning softly as he filled her a second time. Slowing to a stop he gently withdrew and held her tenderly as she too stilled. Content.

 

 

 

“What have you done to me?” he wondered breathlessly, a purr of his own.

 

 

 

She only smiled. Without his help this time, she’d been able to take humanoid form for almost a quarter hour. More than enough time for them to... well, do things she and Kalmbyd had only dreamed of doing, once they’d finished with the ill fated proceedings on Station.

 

 

 

In a slow motion flurry of exotic languor, several of her slight trail fins unflattened from her length then and she flew up to face him, one part of her careful to always touch his skin as they had forcibly Bonded when he’d saved her. What had surprised both of them was how swiftly and how much they had joyed in almost every moment since.

 

 

 

“Mmm, naah. Naughty, naughty girl! Methinks all three.” His hand brushed against her shiny capitulum; she turned to him, once more nuzzling softly against his naked chest. “Will you be up for the second round later? I think you might need a bit of telepathic massage. The bioelectrical field given off by your prefrontal lobes, however small those lobes are compared to mine, seems to be suffering from a rather profound temporoplasic bruise. Very odd. I want a better look. Will you let me in?”

 

 

But she was asleep already. Well then! Must have tired the poor dear out. Ha!

 

 

Not daring to grin, the Doctor merely blinked at her, hopeful, batting his eyelashes up and down with slow, meticulous care and compulsively, suggestively, licking his lips. Perhaps the extra flood of sex hormones he’d just carefully released would relax her enough so he could survey the damage... but, he had to admit something to himself before he pushed her on the issue. For all that Welyx was the slightly stronger telepath, she seemed quite unwilling to allow his mental touch on her. But then again, he had been that way too, once. For far too long.

 

 

A good thing then, he supposed as he prepared himself to root about outside the doors of those locked rooms within Welyx’s mind first by climbing out of the heady mixture of fascination and glee that so saturated their joinings, that he had been at it far longer than she.

 

 

 _“... of course. See that you do.”_


	3. An Oft-Copied Page Out of Poor Yorick’s Almanac, or, How to Occupy an Old Man with a Glow Stick

 

 _“... of course. See that you do.”_

Former Ambassador Welyx of Wexyllis VIII shook her long tail in disgust at the comm screen as it blanked. The Doctor was sleeping, as she’d left him after they’d mated. There was a natural anaesthetic in a Wexylleen’s spines... it would keep him asleep while she busied herself with his mind, a magnificent landscape of silver suns that rose and set over golden cities, with labyrinthine white marble halls and seas of ruby grass. A fantastic organ, really, a Time Lord’s brain. And his contained so many secrets. Levering herself through the air toward him, she took bipedal form mid flight and landed on delicate feet a mere stride and a half away from him. He had helped her deal with Kalmbyd’s death, after all. It was only fair that she drain some of his negative energy in return. She needed her subject of study in good condition, and from the sheer levels of depressants in his system, he would benefit from a bit of psychic lancing. Since she’d been doing just that, sleep seemed to come more easily to him. All the better, because she needed access to what lay behind those shining walls.

 

 

As she wormed her way through the cracks in his barriers, cracks and seams so carefully discovered, she never expected his hearts to stop while she was in his head.

 

 

Nor did she expect them to start again.

 


	4. And Then Along Comes Mary

 

 

It was, approximately, the middle of twilight time when the Doctor awoke from his –little kip-.

 

 

Welyx was strangely quiet, and his rooms seemed to have transmuted themselves into a kind of anteroom bedchamber, filled with spacious, mostly empty shelves, a canopied four poster bed –on which he now lay-, and the tickling soothe of white everything that covered, well, everything. Yes everything. The entire room seemed bathed in a soft glow of white that was pleasing to the eye, from the sparse but gentle furnishings to the cloudy residence of walls that might never have led one to believe they’d been filched from their home in the pre-dawn hours.

 

 

On second thought, they could have just landed, and the TARDIS decided to settle him in before waking them both up. His little jaunt through the little Wexylleen’s thoughts must have tired him more than he’d realized. Hrm. Either that or they truly were in a strange room, albeit a nice one. Rather pleasant, actually, considering that he could no longer feel the TARDIS’ emanations in his brain. It was as if… as if she were walled off, away from him. Or he away from her.

 

 

Slowly he stirred in the big bed, not wanting to make a fuss in case his benefactors might hear and decide to make him lunch after all. But as he swung carefully onto the edge of the mattress, he noticed an odd bulge against his chest. It was hard to breathe, as though small twists of tendrillesque something were filling the spaces between his hearts and stomachs.

 

 

“Welyx?” he croaked in a somewhat manageable tone, trying to sustain his breathing between the war of thoughts in his head and the chill spin of fear that had taken up residence in his ancillary nerve bundle. His whole being seemed –off-, like he’d fasted for a month or something, then dashed off to win the Planet-Con World Cross on Greco-Olympii IV…

 

 

Panic welled, like a match dropped down an oil well, and he sank back carefully, not wanting to disturb her. Yes, it had to be Welyx that lay still atop his chest. But how did she become Complete without his consent? Normally it was against the Shadow Proclamation’s not quite minimalist charter for any being to meddle seriously with anything resembling a Time Lord, let alone another race of telepaths… but enough of that. Her tentacles were obviously deeply sunk into his chest, and dangerously close to organs that he rather wanted to keep. So he lay back and relaxed, and waited for the entourage that was probably about to arrive.

 

 

Two minutes passed.

 

 

…

 

 

Three.

 

 

…

 

 

Five.

 

 

…

 

 

Ten.

 

 

…

 

 

Twenty.

 

 

…

 

 

Well this wasn’t going to work. He’d never been one for patience. Too hyper! And too broken, once upon a time.

 

 

 Of course, there would always be that day. That fateful moment on Mars. The day everything changed.

 

 

That day, he’d been filled with a different kind of fire, more terrible than anything. The fire of Power. So hot, that searing flame. So cold the ice that fueled it. But no more.

 

 

He knew himself, now.

 

 

With a lingering sigh, pall to lost promises and kind faces betrayed in a moment of illness, the Doctor heaved himself to his feet.

 

 

Bare skin landed on a cool marble floor, suffering nothing but the weight of his body and another’s. He really had to moisturize more.

 

 

He swayed in place, feeling the weight of Welyx’s wormlike length as she shifted in her slumber, her limbs nestled deeply between his two hearts, her body stuck in his chest like a stake. Then, satisfactorily adjusted, he looked down.

 

 

 “Ah, good. Naughty bits are nice and covered. Wouldn’t want to spoil anyone else’s evening out of doors with my ah, hand-me-down collection of Gallifreyan geodes. In their own unique setting. Oh dear,” he murmured, feeling his face turn fifteen simultaneous shades of heated red, “I’m becoming that pervy old man Jackie always dreamed of doing in. Blimey.”

 

 

 He shook himself, and regretted it as Welyx’s weight trembled against his hearts, causing a sharp pain.

 

 

It was then that he noticed the puckering around the scars, the irritation clearly apparent along the thick tendrils of Wexylline flesh that were growing from his body.

 

 

“ Oh! Guh. Of course! All those sensitive nerve endings! Welyx! You’re swollen from trauma! There were complications during the surgery, weren’t there, sweetheart? Oh good gravy on waffles. Why can’t they ever just leave a handy little note on the bedside table? What harm could that possibly do?”

 

 

Soon the Doctor had sat himself back down on the bed for a breather, then eased himself up again and started for the door. But it opened before he could reach it.

 

 

A pretty woman with deep copper curls stood there, backed by two guard-y types in white. They were obviously not of her race, being somewhat tall. And pithy. With holes.

 

 

“Uncomplete cloii, I’m assuming?” he murmured, feeling a little giddy at the sight of them all.

 

 

Her race was really quite familiar to him after all, considering that Traken was no more.

 

 

The Doctor might have leaped two feet with joy, seeing her again, except the room was spinning rather irritatingly in the wrong direction, and much too fast for his liking. He turned to the woman and rasped, “Oh that’s just fine! Very fine indeed! Now, will someone please make the room stop turning? Ohhhh too late! I’m feeling poorly… bollocks.”

 

 

The woman gestured, and the two pieces of driftwood with mouths came up and caught him before he could plant his face in the nice cold marble.

 

 

How decent of them!


	5. Young Diplomats

 

 

“… as We were saying, the Representative from Traken In Absentia has come to offer her assistance in the matter of Station Fifteen, and has taken the last two survivors -who were Completed out of health concerns upon arrival- into her as yet impartial custody. The fact that the survivors happen to be former Representative Welyx from Wexylline VIII and the Representative from Gallifrey In Absentia have no bearing on these proceedings at the current juncture… ”

 

 

The Proc’l Moderator paused; its gelatin-mold body quivering slightly, dangling seaweed tendrils of jellyfish flesh as it reacted to the imperfect vacuum of the aspirating entities in the chamber.

 

 

There was soon to emerge a very good, -if secondary- reason for the deep breathing as the murmur rose louder, filling the grand delegational hall with tinny, almost tangible shock.

 

 

“Representative… from Gallifrey In Absentia?”

 

 

“But Gallifrey is dead!”

 

 

“Gallifrey is a myth! The Shining Jewel is nothing but a myth!”

 

 

The hall was shimmering now, blues and golds and swirling purples mingling like storm clouds over and through and along the towering walls of viscous liquid; and it was in that moment, when the colours of Proc’l’s great living Rotunda danced in greatness above the heads of the Delegation for the first time in over a quarter million years since the War between Proc’l and Wexylline had begun, that the man waiting in the shadows took his unexpected but nonetheless prominent place in the center column, rising to speak only when the hassled and oft-interrupted Proc’l Speaker gave him leave with a slight shake of a foremost tentacle.

 

 

“Who are any of you to say that the fires I started with my own hands at the center of the Cascade are only a fairy tale told to nurselings? That is merely what you were led to believe, children. But this is not true, oh no, not true at all,” said the thin young humanoid male with floppy, wild hair and big slender hands, who did not stop to gloat but simply spoke the truth as he alone could speak it.

 

“And I will tell you why, today. At this point, at this time. For I myself am the Representative of Gallifrey In Absentia, errant son and heir to the House of Lungbarrow, last guardian of Arcadia. And yes, I am The World Killer, Ka Faraq Gatri, the Renegade who ended the Last Great Time War, because Gallifrey asked it of me. Without that great sacrifice, none of you would be alive. But I digress,” the Doctor paused, suddenly out of breath as Welyx’s weight shifted unexpectedly in his chest. After just having hit his stride, too! “I could use my proper name, but I know from experience that most of the participating species here today are not possessed of the vocal facility, ability or attentive inclination toward such. And, with as many syllables as my name probably has now, I completely understand, believe me. So, with the Delegations’ permission, in the interests of expedition, I ask that my formal address for this gathering of delegates be only the Doctor, as this was the title I chose for myself after attaining my rank. It is our custom. Well, it was, anyway. ”

 

 

The Doctor stopped for a moment to massage the soreness around the joining point in his chest, taking the opportunity for a few quick breaths in the space left by the hush of the crowd.

 

 

“Ah! And now that we’re all friends, I could really use a chair right now. My hearts are being squeezed by this little arrangement, and it’s rather exhausting, not comfortable at all. If I may take my seat, Madam Moderator?”

 

 

He looked up with some effort at the Moderator, the jellyfish-like Proc’l who held the highest seat closest to the podium, and promptly received another slight waggle of tentacle.

 

 

“Most eloquent, Doctor,” sang the Moderator tonelessly, “… but are you certain you and your partner are well enough to attend this delegation without ill effects?”

 

 

“Our lives are not as important in view of the whole picture. What is important is that we discover the reason behind the attack, madam Moderator. And now I must rest for a moment, begging apology from the Delegation.”

 

 

With an exaggerated sigh, the Doctor sat back down next to the copper haired woman as the crescendo of murmurings heightened then died as suddenly as it had begun, at a simple wave of the Proc’l Moderator’s signing tendril.

 

 

“Very motile, that one,” he murmured softly, nudging her shoulder with an almost imperceptible jerk of his arm, “… one would almost think the people of Proc’l held some kind of undue monopoly on the facts, given that their weapons tech appears at first glance to be worthless to the-…”

 

 

“We will have silence in the Delegation Hall; the final Delegate slated to give evidence has arrived, and must be welcomed and seated. Come,” called the Moderator. Then, a tendril and wobble later, the last Delegate entered the Hall.

 

 

With every movement forward the newcomer took, the Doctor felt his hearts beat faster, the twin organs slamming nauseously against his chest despite the bulge of the sleeping symbiote nestled between them.

 

 

“I am the Delegate from Ska-ro In Absentia,” came the grating, tinny,  high screech of nails on a chalkboard, distilled through a jet turbine and canned in frozen tubes like orange juice concentrate.

 

 

“Doctor!” cried the Traken Representative as she saw the Time Lord leap out of his chair, only to sway and catch himself as the Dalek on the Delegation Hall floor swiveled slowly about to address the commotion that had spoiled its entrance.

 

 

“Oh, well isn’t that a relief! It’s only Dalek Caan! Hullo, Caan! Take care to mind the invasion!” yelled the Doctor cheerfully as he waved at the Dalek. Then his elbows abruptly helped themselves to most of the table for a few minutes’ kip.

 

 

“Oooh. I really must introduce him to the joys of chocolate biscuits, Nyssa my dear,” he muttered from the table top, where he’d smushed his face against his arms, “… Rose would have died laughing.”

 

Nyssa, the Representative In Absentia from Traken, had once been a Companion of the Doctor’s, and so, knew better than to enable him by replying. She did, however, stifle a small smile…

 

“Is the Representative from Gallifrey In Absentia unable to continue?” quipped the Moderator, her tentacles flicking about like the disembodied tails of twelve angry cats.

 

 

But the Doctor simply held up a hand, waving a TARDIS blue handkerchief limply in the air.

 

 

“ Madam Moderator, I apologize for the disruption, and yes I am quite fine. You, however, are something else entirely. I noticed it the moment I snuck – oh dear, so sorry! Why don’t we just, ahem, strike that one from the record, eh?- I mean staggered in here when I heard the sweet strains of diplomacy, erm, squawking from my chamber door.”

 

The Time Lord paused, dusting off his now-massive chest area, where Welyx still appeared to be sleeping, before leaping out of his seat again rather more gingerly and striding up to the Moderator’s Podium, hands in pockets.

 

 

“I expect you to seat yourself, Doctor,” quipped the Moderator with not even a flick of her tendrils –he would have to congratulate her, for she was really quite magnificently still during his entire diatribe- or a shimmer of that luscious translucent wet skin, “… as I believe that despite your high standing in many circles of repute, this Delegational Congress has been well informed as to your tendency to ramble. With respect to you and your Completed’s recovering condition, this office makes firm request that you desist in any further outburst until the Conclave is officially Opened and discussion is begun.”

 

 

Oh, if a jellyfish could glare! The Time Lord very nearly let his inward grin slip out of doors as he walked up to stand just a hair or so away from the slippery, undulating Proc’l Moderator’s receptor tentacle. He almost hated to do it, but do it he would.

 

 

“You do know,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially like a cat at the fishes, “… that one of the Delegations –did it- as it were? As to which one –done it- well, I say it was the blah blah blah, in the Station Observatory with the Genetic Proximity Bomb. What do you think?”

 

 

After that, the Moderator promptly turned a bright crimson as he walked back to his place.

 

 

“Oi, Nyssa!” said the Doctor as he turned a disgustingly straight face toward his former companion whilst he took his seat beside her with a huff of unbridled relief to be off his feet, “I’m not completely certain child, but I believe I struck a nerve! Wouldn’t you say?”

 

 

The Traken Delegate merely raised an eyebrow.


	6. Signs of Dissent

 

 

“…very good. So are they resting then?” Quiho the Lacrymori Root Beast said, shuffling on its tendril legs as it stood outside the Doctor’s door.

 

 

Nyssa nodded, looking toward the closed portal. “It would seem so; but one can never tell, with him. He is a very stubborn man, after all.”

 

 

The Lacrymori’s smile resembled a wall of roots and moss, all green fluffy-soft bits and heavy brown twists of pith stuffed together, dotted by the occasional dangling nitrogen feeler… “Ah, yes. A very stubborn, very wonderful man, and a shrewd diplomat as well.”

 

 

Nyssa had to laugh; “Shrewd? The Doctor? Well, possibly. Or he may just be entirely too random for any of us to comprehend.” She smoothed her shift of station down across her body and sighed, twisting her hands together where she hoped a certain delegate across the way, one of the pale sea green Jellatheen – elegant, slightly slender, happily non- criminal medical professional cousins to the Slitheen and Blathereen of Rexicoricalphallipatorius- would get her coded message. She’d surely hidden her intent well enough by using Karatonjil 4’s hand signal alphabet, and the Jellatheen in question, being a former student of the Doctor’s, was well versed. After all, if you were a friend to the Doctor, you learned along with him, often without realizing. The man was brilliant in so many wonderful ways. She really ought to write them down, especially since-

 

 

Boom.

 

 

Whissssss-tlink!

 

 

Tlink. Tlink.

 

 

Tlink-tlink-tlink!

 

 

Pkooooooo!

 

 

 Tlink-tlink!

 

 

The narrow ceiling of the sleeping quarters buckled like wet pressboard, undulating over their heads as sprinkles of silvery mortar and metal rained death on three rooms in every direction.

 

 

Goodbye corridor; hello, dirty bomb.

 

 

\----------------------------------

 

 

Charred Lacrymosan pinged toward her; pieces of shrapnel had flown at them- another incendiary had been set off. But that was never important.  Bits of a friend were lodged in her curls, drifting, burning hairline scars down her cheeks and pooling at the folds of her robes in little ash piles.

 

 

She lifted her hand; there was blackened skin where two fingers had been. Well, shock or no shock, she had handled this type of nonsense before, thanks to the Doctor. She would Handle it again.

 

 

So Nyssa of Traken tapped her burnt hand on the Doctor’s door, knocking off the killed digits where they’d flash burned, and stole a quick glance over at the Jellatheen. It was helping Quiho scoop up the precious ash with a teaspoon and a broken laser scanner… where had they gotten…

 

 

They stopped what they were doing instantly when they saw her raise her half of hand, eyes swollen with the wet of surprise and the red of smoke. She nodded at them as she made a fist with it, then cracked her neck, holding their gaze like an ancient ruin. Others would tend to the injured; checking on the lump of Time Lord in the bed was her only priority. _Because,_ she thought, as she slipped inside the door to the Time Lord’s room just as it clattered onto the floor behind her, _someone always needs a Doctor._


	7. The Little Man Upon The Stair

“Do we have him?”

 

 

Sounds bubbled from a series of tanks; no feet were to be seen a maze of watery containers.

 

 

The lights were dimmed.

 

 

The figure of a man covered with dust lay posed like an Earth child’s doll in a chair.

 

 

There was something in his chest.

 

 

“Yes, it is him, Inquisitor.”

 

 

More bubbling.

 

 

“Is Welyx with him?”

 

 

“I should think she’s with me, else we shan’t be Complete for very long, eh?”

 

 

 _Oh great,_ he thought glumly, _a blast of water to the face. Then another. The bowtie’s all purple, now! Awww… good thing I’m bi. Heheh._

 

 

Soon those plump yet thin lips were gawping at shadows. Sadly though, the peridot eyes remained out of reach. The Crustaceaform Inquisitor sighed. Perhaps a blow to the head would shut him up?

 

 

Sorry, erm, was that supposed to frighten me? My but you people don’t get out much. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? A genetic proximity bomb is just that; anyone it’s keyed to gets to say bye bye, while anyone not on the hit list winks out with a knot to the head or laterally-similar appendage thereof.

 

 

The Doctor was a worm on stilts, then- clearly he’d enjoyed the buildup.

 

 

“And so it is, Mister Inquisitor, that you escaped that sad excuse for an incendiary, and hopped a freight back here, to cavort with your little football team! Oh I love a good reunion!”

 

 

His fingers crawled over the handy rests. His wrists burned with the need to squeeze out of the kindergarten knotwork binding him to the simple squarish stick of seat with arms.

 

 

Still, the one watching knew better than to underestimate this man. The Doctor had, after all, saved Welyx from the fire.

 

 

“Idiot,” rasped a pithy voice that sounded like roots scraping over hot coals. He is surprised. He hadn’t intended to speak. “Let him be. I want to talk to him. Let me show him my face.”

 

 

The tall, gangly alien lobster in dark burgundy robes stepped aside to reveal the speaker to the Doctor.

 

 

“Just as I thought,” the Time Lord murmured, sniffing as he skipped his eyes like stones on a lake along every facet of this new presence, scenting for weaknesses he already had guessed. “It’s been a few months since I saw you last. You were in pieces. She was sad about it for a long time.” His long fingers raised from the arms of the chair, dangling bits of woven seaweed rope. He’d already untied himself. Mostly. “Those were real tears, despite her… affiliations. But hey! Build a better mousetrap and it’s love’s labour’s lost, eh Kalmbyd?”

 

 

No movement; instead, a sharpness beckoned quickly at his cheek, so swiftly thrust away from the bark-and-root man’s form he almost couldn’t see it himself.

 

 

“That’s handy! What’s in there? Is it something to drink? This storage room is really quite dry…” the Doctor coughed, choking, and tried to clear his throat. The room full of boxes of parts and packaged foodstuff suddenly resembled a still life of vaseline…

 

 

“Why did you bring her here?” the rasp returned again, closer now. “Everything is ruined now… why?”

 

 

It’s becoming hard to breathe… claws of dry air are scraping down his gullet, all the way to his lungs.

 

The closed root-fist with its moss-covered spike shoved against his jaw; he heard a crack, but he’d tried to speak anyway. That was nothing compared to the War, after all. A walk in the park.

 

 

Life felt far away, abruptly, like a vision of the city at night from the Parisian Port Authority docks, lost in the rain and feeble underneath everything else.

 

 

The rasp came again. Now he knew- it wasn’t a voice, but a synthesizer, a speak-for device. So Kalmbyd did give something up that day. As for the Doctor, he’d felt it all before, horses in the head, ocean storms in the chest. It was still one of those days, apparently… but then again, chaos had always been a frequent partner on his dance card.

 

 

As the room tilted, the last thing he saw was the root-ball opening on a green pulpy sharp-petalled flower… rather like a thick, fruity dahlia not yet in full bloom. Then a single butter yellow stamen popped out, full of pollen, and squirted a puff his way. He blinked, falling forward.

 

 

“Since it is a part of my body, I’m fairly certain it’s not from a park… but it does have a similar calming effect- as an herbal analgesic designed for beings with two hearts,” Kalmbyd rasped through the receiver as the robed underling curled a strong claw against the Time Lord’s chest, beneath Welyx’s still-sleeping squid-y silhouette.

 

 

“Why? What’s going on?” the Doctor managed. His limbs felt rotted like year-old refuse. His brains? Obviously, they’d been retroactively stuffed with unprocessed cotton bolls.

 

 

A huge reddish-bluish bumpy pincer wrapped around him and hoisted his limp body from bindings that had already been cut through, and he imagined rising like the dolphin, only to be cut up into canned tuna.

 

 

“Be quiet- it’s easier,” rasped Kalmbyd as the seafood dinner in burgundy robes hefted the Time Lord over a shoulder and shadows descended again, “…my pollen will still the hybrid’s venom so you can sleep. While you rest, we will remove it.”

 

 

“Vennnn…..ommmm?” the Doctor croaked. His tongue felt like a lumpy, heavy, soggy sausage in his mouth. “Remooove? Wh-at?”

 

 

“Welyx’s clone from your chest, Time Lord. Surely you of all beings have no truck with a Dalek spy?”

 

 


	8. Before the Camp Town Race Is When the Biz Goes Down

In his open metal casing, former Emperor Dalek Caan hovered in front of the concession stand the establishment had so thoughtfully placed outside the main council room.

 

 

Now maybe he could order that damn slushy he’d been waiting for since he arrived.

 

 

Lazily, he floated the battered egg-beater straw of his metal eyestalk up to survey the offerings on the board, and a little aluminum laugh of tinny glee escaped him.

 

 

1\. HARVEY WALLBANGER

2\. LEMON TOSSER – lemonade with a kick.

3\. TOP CHEF- with Galruvian onion.

4\. TELACHTIAN TEQUILA - note: live larva provide flavouring and may sink to the bottom; do not eat! They are not jelly babies, Doctor!

5\. ORANGE JULIUS – with real egg.

6\. REAL FRUIT SLUSHIE – Cream Optional. Pick your fruit (up to five) on the dispenser display. Grab cup and enjoy!

 

 

A slushie it is! Caan cried in delight as he punched in the big square buttons and they lit in order:

 

1\. Blueberry

2\. Pomegranate

4\. Raspberry

6\. Drak-chi cloudfruit

15\. Goji berries

 

 

The whirrr of the machine rumbled along, and it was pleasing to Caan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whirrrr…

 

 

Smoosh! Smoosh!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Upsettingly, the lovely noise stopped too soon for comfort, but then a rainbow of fresh and fruity goodness plopped into Dalek Caan’s extra extra large slushie cup, leaving a curl of swooshy slush hanging on the spout.

 

 

He adjusted his plunger-shaped sucker and his eyestalk. A little to the left – buzzz! A little to the right- whirr!

 

 

Soon, soon, the beloved slushie would be his!

 

 

It was just sitting there, waiting for him to take it in his grey squishy little octopus arms and, and…

 

 

His sucker moved closer; soon, oh so soon…

 

 

The roundness of his plunger was so close to the cup now. He could feel the cold emanating from his desired beverage.

 

 

Then the sound of footsteps came slowly.

 

 

But so engaged was Dalek Caan in his dance of the sugar plum slushie that he did not seem to hear, so fixed was he upon his prize of sweet fruity goodness.

 

 

Tromp tromp.

 

 

Tromp tromp.

 

 

Tromp-tromp.

 

 

Suddenly having heard the danger in the background, Caan started, but the rag soaked in Laxis machine oil had already covered his face. Old linen seeped in the stench of black oil seeped over his smushy mouth, filling his senses. His plunger knocks against the machine; his cup is tilting like an old hero, away from safety, toward the metal tiles of the floor.

 

 

He is pulled back, away from the slushie machine. Away from…

 

The last thing he saw was the sight of the slushie falling.

 

 But what he didn't see, as he was tugged from view of the cams above and into the dark, was a tweed shadow popping a hand out to catch the cup and replace it on the stand.


	9. Jui Kuen

“I’m not an old artifact!” said the Doctor as he applied his fingers to Caan’s slushie and manipulated the lid into place until it clicked. “Why did you have to knock him out, anyway? What could he possibly be able to help you with unconscious?” Then he swayed and fell back into his hover-seat, cursing as breath caught in his chest- it was still too soon after the surgery to be too active, he reasoned as Mister Lobster came up behind him and stuck his neck with another hypospray of sedative.

 

“We are saving his life, Doctor…” said Kalmbyd, his root-fingers weaving and unweaving in what the Doctor had only learned recently was a cloii’s way of chuckling. “Rest yourself; you may have insisted on coming but that doesn’t mean we can’t control our assets.”

 

The Doctor smiles; his face feels darker than a night beneath Midnight’s extonic sun.

 

 

“You should bring the slushie with us, Kalmbyd…” the Doctor mused, acting out the effects of the organic drug, “…otherwise, I fear for the furniture.”

 

 

“I can feel you holding off the effects of my pollen, Time Lord,” Kalmbyd said calmly. “Don’t make this difficult, or I will dose you further. Understood?”

 

 

“Fine,” the Doctor groaned, settling himself in the hover. “But do you think I could get one of those drinks? That pollen of yours is dehydrating me horribly.”

 

 

The Doctor controlled his hover in a tight glide back to the drinks machine, punched in a no. four and retrieved his drink, then once more sat back in his hover for the final time.

 

 

“So, Treeboy…” he breathed, happy with himself, “what role for Caan in our little play?”

 

 

Kalmbyd snorted, and a bit of pollen came out of his chest.

 

 

“I’ll explain later.”


	10. The Poisoner's Hand Mirror

As the Doctor followed him in his hover, Kalmbyd pointed with a long ropey limb to the clone of Welyx thrashing about in her tank.

“Hello, evil worm!” the Doctor muttered, his false bravado threatening hives under his bowtie, “what brings you to this neck of the race? Pole dancing? Mutiny? Dalek ice cream? Or is it, perhaps, a darker scheme at work?” 

He leaned closer, grinning darkly, eyes narrowing, “… oh yes, a dark scheme indeed… a scheme so dark, it threatens the entire ice cream industry! You and your ilk plan to corner the market by… introducing The Stuff to the Spice Trade on Arrakis! Oh the horrors!” he crowed, wiping his brow like every good drama queen, ever.

The Welyx clone sloshed forward in the open top tank, turned, and bubbled a greeting to Kalmbyd, who nodded, flat faced.

“Get. Me. Away. From. Him. He’s crazy and an idiot in bed.”

“I’m an idiot everywhere, darling- look me up. I’m in all the ‘funny’ papers…” the Doctor smirked, grinning out one side of his mouth like a stroked out pervert. 

“No, dear, you’re just funny. Now leave me alone and die.”

“Well that’s no way to treat someone who saved your life, Peach Pit! What’s the matter, don’t I get a farewell kiss?”

The Doctor grabbed her from the tank and smooched her, Frenching it deep down her wormy succulent throat.

“No, but you are definitely on my list of people to kill. Actually, once I break out of here, you’re moved to the top of that list. Happy birthday, you sad old freak.”

Then Welyx wriggled out of his hands and plopped back in the tank, swimming round to stare at the opposite wall, well away from his face.

“How could you let him do that to me, Kal?” she murmured, sounding abused.

“Mrs. Robinson, “Kalmbyd said, grinning a rooty grin, “you trying to seduce me implies we somehow know each other. You are not my Welyx, and I am not your slave. Enjoy your vacation in the sunny warehouse district.”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows in surprised approval, and then Kalmbyd led him away from the storage tanks and into the small warehouse control box room, where the Doctor’s Telachtian Vodka sat on a napkin, the bottle clear and empty as dead eyes and missing one very important ingredient.

Kalmbyd stared at the Doctor; the Doctor stared back. Then they grinned, and spoke at the same time.

“The Worm.”


	11. In Case of Fruit Basket, Ring Bell

“So the clone’s people were captured by the Daleks and retuned,” Caan said calmly, sipping the new slushie the Doctor had substituted on the night he’d been Dalek-napped.

“You’re… sure you’re not sore about being kidnapped? I mean, we did spill your slushie and all, Caan dear,” said the Doctor, rubbing Caan’s casing with a flannel to polish it.

“We are not bo-thered,” Caan said, grating out his usual tinny voice like parmesan cheese on spaghetti, “Although we would have issues if the slu-shie had not been re-placed! Thank you Doc-tor!”

The Doctor nodded, and settled back in his hover to listen.

“So, you mean to have us infiltrate Dalek delegation and find the traitors who caused the bombing? But we are already ambassador Caan? Confusion! Confusion!”

“No, no, Caan, sweetheart, as a Different Dalek!” the Doctor squeaked hopefully, “I’ll provide you with a cover shimmer, programmed by yours truly. Your friends the psychopathic pepper pots won’t be able to tell, so you’ll be safe while you look for Welyx with the self-degrading scannites I’ve hidden in the shimmer data. Just don’t let on that you’re with us, Caan-y; it could get messy. I don’t have to remind you of your people’s tendency to fry up traitors- you’d be nothing more than overcooked calamari before you took two steps, erm, sorry, flight cycles out the gate.”

“It is a good plan, but…” Dalek Caan scratched out thoughtfully, his casing making little excited gear noises, “after it is o-ver, you will make us a root beer, yes? We will do anything for a root beer.”

The Doctor shrugged and tried it. “So, anything, right? O-kay then! Think you could wear a pink tutu for Jack’s Birthday Party?”

“Will there be root beer?”


	12. Infiltrate! Infiltrate!

“Designation! Designation!” screamed the Dalek at the entrance to the Dalek delegation’s ship.

 

 

Dalek Caan remembered the shimmer he was wearing, and scratched out his disguise’s call number.

 

 

“We are Da-lek Free Agent 147-B, sub-designation R-2-D-4! Requesting reassignment off-station following de-brief-ing!”

 

 

“Do not enter the vestibule! Due to length of time abroadddd, you will be scannnnned for ex-tra de-vices and miss-ing sooocks!”

 

“No time, Door Guard Dalek 6B-1! We have innnnformation concerning the disappearance of Ambassador Caan! There is a trai-tor on this shiiiip!”

 

 

The guard Dalek stopped whirring and humming; his casing grew still.

 

 

“We will allow you to en-ter. Do not go left to the deeeebriefing depot- go right through the scanning bayyyy!”

 

 

Dalek Caan signaled his understanding and moved up the ramp, then hovered into the Dalek ship, bypassing a few low rank Daleks and an officer Dalek, all of whom turned their heads toward him.

 

 

“Root Beer, Root Beer, Root Beer,” he murmured inside his case, over his personal com unit as he sped along down the scanning bay to the right, a long row of red lights and laser guided death for any organics foolish enough to make it onto the ship.

 

 

Absently, he wondered if the Dalek at the door had seen him spray its hull with scannites, ensuring that whatever passed through that door now would signal back directly to his friends, beaming his discoveries to their waiting ears.

 


	13. The Dalek's Master Flan

The Moderator roared her call to order again, for the second time that morning.

“Any other participants in this session must enter this hall or be barred from the pro-”

The double doors flew open on two rooty hands, and Kalmbyd.

Behind him, the Doctor, leaning out from his hover chair and pointing in a direction across the council hall. Then the Doctor fell back, clasping his chest in sudden exhaustion. 

“And here is Kalmbyd, back from the dead, and,” the Doctor cried hoarsely, “Welyx was not to blame...” 

His eyes lingered on the Moderator while he slid to one side, his chest laboring as he touched his fingers together close to his ribs, hiding his doings from view.

It was at this point that Kalmbyd stepped up, bringing from his opening chest a jar; a jar the cloii held up for every set of eyes in the council room to see.

The clone of Welyx slept inside it, curled in sleep within a rich nutrient bath of Januvian sea salt, Wexylline seawater and blue reed extract. 

“This clone we have subdued was one of several that were part of the bombing of the station,” Kalmbyd called out, staring straight at the Moderator.

“But do you have proof of her involvement? Where is the real Welyx, member Kalmbyd?” the Moderator swished tendrils out toward the cloii, waving the tips like a gavel.

“They do not,” cried Dalek Caan, scooting out onto the floor, “But I do!”

And then his casing steamed open wider than the Doctor had ever seen.


	14. Caaaaaaaaaaan!

“Wow, I didn’t know they could open that… far…”

The Doctor leapfrogged over Kalmbyd and was running toward the Dalek on the floor before the Moderator could slam her tendrils down on her podium.

“CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!”

Kalmbyd stared after the Time Lord for a second or two, then calmly waved down the Moderator, saying, “The man’s on painkillers. I wouldn’t stop him if I were you. Remember Demons Run?”

“Doctor! Wait!” came a small cry from inside Caan’s casing. 

Welyx slid out onto Caan’s outer shell and called out louder, one eyestalk forming in Kalmbyd’s direction, “My Cloii! You have to stop him! He’s…”

Then the sound of thousands of humming insects blowing in a strong wind filled the council chamber.

Even the Doctor turned around to see.

Because the Dalek Delegation had all pointed the cylinders of their gatling-like gunstalks at Caan and Welyx. 


	15. Parochial Clown

“SEXY, open your heart to me!” the Doctor screamed, raising one hand and snapping his fingers as he looked down at Caan and Welyx, who wriggled to safety back inside Caan’s closing shell.

 

 

A rush of golden light flew toward him in a beam, filling his body like sunlight bursting through a dark room.

 

 

As the Time Lord stood there, eyes closed and panting, between the Dalek guns and Caan and Welyx, he reached up, smoothed his hair back. Adjusted his bowtie.

 

 

Then opened his eyes.

 

Every corner of the man spilled gold, and when he moved, the lights dimmed in reverence to the brightness of his body, the sheer life flowing around his face.

 

 

He stretched out his hand, waving his arm over the Dalek Delegation, and they changed.

 

 

One by one, their casings melted away, their mangled, mutant bodies growing straighter, limbs uncurling, tentacles withering down into proper toes and fingers.

 

 

When the light died, they were standing there, bipedal, naked, shivering, eyes staring at their fellows.

 

 

Then they all turned as one, and stared at the Doctor with wet faces, their skin dripping embryonic fluid.

 

 

“Liberator of the Daleks. What will you call us, now that we are Daleks no longer?” they said, reaching out to him with long hands and long arms and tentative smiles.

 

 

The Doctor groaned and sank to the floor, sliding onto his back.

 

 

“I don’t care, I don’t care!” he sobbed, heaving dry tears up to the ceiling, “I’m just sorry I couldn’t save the rest of you-u-u! Uhhh… oh god that hurt. Somebody get me a cuban and a bottle of scotch. And I have to bury Nyssa somewhere! Moderator!”

 

He leaped up again, holding his head amidst the shreds of his artron-singed clothes, “I need to see Nyssa’s body, perform certain rites- I’m the only one who can! And… Welyx, you…Member Welyx, forgive me,” he pointed to the symbiote, who was busy growing back into her cloii’s chest, “please give your testimony so this stupid woman with a gavel can regain her sense and we can all go home. I’ve arrangements to make…”

 

 

But Welyx spread tendrils over Kalmbyd’s chest in annoyance, and they both walked over to him.

 

 

“Doctor,” she murmured, pointing to the Moderator, “I heard her say that Nyssa was alive, down in medical. You should go see her.”

 

 

The Doctor sighed, waved his arm about, and then walked off toward the doors before he stopped and turned on his heel, swaying slightly in a wobble.

 

 

“What? My Nyssa’s… alive?”

 

 

The doors banged after him as he ran.

 

 

Dalek Caan closed his casing completely, and wandered over to the naked Skaroans with a proffered plunger.

 

 

“I am Caan. And you are?”

 

 

One of them, a bald man, touched himself and said, “We are the Kal Edal.”

 

 

Caan waved his plunger down in reverence, before translating it for the council.

 

 

“The Light of Dal. We are ag-reed. And we have much to talk about. Let us leave the Doc-tor to his work, and be-gin our own. And we shall have root beer!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. That Quay, Fifteen Years Ago

The Doctor half slid, half ran along the wall toward the council medical bay, taking no time to investigate any locked rooms, or broken hallways, or blinking lights.

Instead, he shambled onward, his eyes looking up here and there after every third partition or so, waiting for the blinking sign that would tell him he’d found her.

Their eyes locked as soon as he skidded to a halt in a small white room. Her hair was a bit greyer than before there were smudges, and… his eyes trailed down her backside to a very peculiar stump. 

“Your arm!” he cried, stumbling over a Jellatheen’s left foot, sea green and bandaged.

Nyssa turned around, and her face grew pale as she looked at him.

She reached out, and her stump-hand grew longer…

“One of Welyx’s clones?” he asked dumbly, as she plopped him in a chair and checked his pulse at the neck.

“Yes; the primary. She’s recovered her name, at least. But whatever your friend the cloii did, it erased the Dalek portion of the clones’ psyche. Whatever relationship you had with the one you encountered is gone, Doctor.”

“…Oh. I… see, that would have been the remote controlled Telachtian vodka worm I put down her throat,” the Doctor sighed, slumping, “they’re actually Memory Worm larva, you know. It’s why they tell you not to swallow it.” He turned to stare at the symbiote on her arm, a rosy blob of a thing that was busily growing fingers and tendrils and sharp needle-like projections from Nyssa’s missing left arm, “So, she doesn’t remember me. Typical.”

Nyssa tutted, and checked him over for bruises.

“You never did know when to stop, Doctor, but that’s why we all love you. It’s all right. At least they’re alive.” Nyssa smiled down at him, and tapped the symbiote, who retracted her blowing limbs and threw them gently in the Doctor’s direction.

“I am Wexminda,” the symbiote murmured with surprising strength; she had just been awakened from the nutrient bath too, judging by the rosy flush.

“You do good work, “the Time Lord breathed softly, nodding at the Jellatheen’s foot before summoning up a weak smile from the dregs of his depression. “But I don’t suppose you like me at all, ehm?”

“Ah, not my type, I’m afraid. But you do look vaguely familiar. Have I met you somewhere?”

The Doctor wiped tears from his eyes and grinned wider, shaking his head as he forced himself to his feet. Then he reached over Wexminda and patted her, then hugged Nyssa, then walked backward out the medical bay doors.

“You just…” he murmured, leaning against a wall as he snap-summoned the TARDIS, “… you just reminded me of someone I used to know. Goodbye, Welyx. Goodbye!”

He sobbed, crying against the familiar blue wood before the ship had fully materialized, and soon, the beautiful blue doors creaked open a little more slowly than normal, a little quieter. Then he slipped inside, and both were gone.

END


End file.
